


all the vicious remarks and verbal attacks

by cuddlepunk



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Bullying, Crying, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, idk how the fuck European school works but i think so idfk, its sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 16:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13978866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlepunk/pseuds/cuddlepunk
Summary: “Is there a problem?” Dan highly suspects their teacher knows exactly what the problem is.He’s given up on expecting anything to come of it.





	all the vicious remarks and verbal attacks

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so I have no fucking idea how school works in England I totally bullshitted this 
> 
> also obviously those blades never fucked dan up too bad but I exaggerated on a lot of this to mimic shit I have experience with. I was never /really/ physically bullied but god knows I have experience with cutting soooooooo

Without thinking, he puts his arms up to block the oncoming x-acto knife. Public school art class smells like dollar store glitter glue and splintery popsicle sticks. Dan used to love art class, loved using washes of watercolor and hot glue to give his brain a break, let his heart speak without interruption. He painted purple cotton candy skies and still life of colorful toppling comic books, bottles of juice. Secondary school meant sticky ink prints and carving stamp blocks. He was so excited to create something that can stand the test of time, something that will produce the same picture today and a hundred years on. Seems like a bad idea now, though, seeing as there’s a substantial but not altogether unprecedented amount of blood dripping onto his school shirt.

“Fucking loser.” It’s whispered just low enough that only the students around the kid notice, all laughing in agreement. 

They laugh when they see the red drip down, but Dan pulls his jacket on before the teacher whips her head around. 

When it gets to a certain point, nothing can surprise you anymore. Especially when there’s a voice in your head telling you that you deserve every second of it, if not more. It gets so easy to welcome the name calling, the pusing around, the destruction of your school papers and extra clothing when it’s been your reality since age 10. Feeling this way, getting treated this way, has become Dan’s normal. More normal than forgetting homework or running out of table sugar. Laying in bed thinking about killing himself might as well be scheduled in his time tables. 10pm-3am: suicidal ideation. He’d write it in his big swooping scrawl, in light blue.

“Is there a problem?” Dan highly suspects their teacher knows exactly what the problem is. 

He’s given up on expecting anything to come of it.  
“I spilled some ink. Sorry.” He lies, voice is low and groggy, saturated with last night’s rambling thoughts, with the hinting he’s the kind of kid who buys red bull in bulk. 

Her glasses refract the artificial classroom light, it gives him a headache. “I see. Make sure you clean it up properly, Daniel.”

The students all laugh again, imitating her voicing his name. 

Dan sighs and asks to go to the bathroom. 

Thankfully, Dan used his lunch money to buy some halfway decent bandages for times like these. Being poor as fuck means you sometimes do result to duct tape and tissues to sop up slit wrists, but blades that had recently touched plastic, wood, and cheap paints make wounds that are much more likely to become infected. He’s lived through that hell plenty of times. He started saving up to invest in rubbing alcohol, gauze, real medical tape, and other various reparations. And what a good choice it was, Dan thinks to himself. He bites his bottom lip and hisses when the hard school water runs over his arm. The goopy cum-white mess of soap they offer here would probably do more hurt than healing, so he just rinses really well. Watches the blood turn the water pink as the sound of its rushing fills the echoey tile room. He dries off with the cardboard towels the school provides and hides the blood soaked paper at the bottom of the trash. 

The next part is gentler, more careful. His clumsy right hand tries its hardest to be precise as he wraps fluffy white gauze around the affected area.

Later tonight he’ll be crying bitter tears without thinking, an animalistic response to physical and emotional trauma, trying so hard to not rationalize it, not give it a single thought, not one second of consideration that maybe this isn’t normal. Because what is he gonna do about it anyways? What can anyone do about it? Nothing will change what those boys hold inside them, no punishment or program, no stern words from a new teacher or 80 year old principal. 

No kind eyes to tell him he doesn’t deserve it. Not really, anyways. 

Maybe there is one single thing that makes him feel better about all this. As pitiful as it is, as guilt-inducing and cringeworthy as it is, one person can turn his day around in one swipe of keys. 

Dan is attention seeking and asking for pity as he types out a tweet, and with every click of the keypad on his phone he knows what will come of this. He knows he’ll get a few people in his direct messages, a couple links to live kitten feeds, the likes. But it was never about that. This is a cry for help meant for one set of ears only. Everyone else it reaches is just collateral damage. 

@danisnotonfire: lol just a day in the life of public school. 

He attaches a pic of his gauze covered arm, bright red blood already starting to seep through the layers. 

He can already feel the buzzes from the phone in his pocket as he walks back to art class. He puts it on silent before entering the doorway. Thankfully he only has to brave another hour and a half before school lets out. It all feels very distant and manageable after getting beaten down so low, even for his standards. England is drizzling with borderline cold rainwater when he sits down for the bus ride home. That’s when he finally opens his phone, teeming with notifications. 

He scrolls through a few before replying to one person asking if he’s okay, just to say he’s fine and hopefully calm them down. 

The only message he opens is from Phil. 

@amazingphil: are you okay??

Dan feels guilty. Why can’t he start conversations like a normal person instead of using the abuse he fucking earned as a childish cry. 

@danisnotonfire: yeah. a day in the life amirite  
@amazingphil: that really isn't normal, you know that, right?  
@danisnotonfire: there are less normal things about my life. dw about it. how are you anyways?  
@amazingphil: dan. im being serious. it went too far a long time ago and i hate it when you get hurt  
@danisnotonfire: fine. i won’t bring it up next time. it's not a big fucking deal, phil.

Dan shut off his phone as if talking to phil wasn’t the only thing in life good enough to make him really wanna stay. Let it play out. Let it last until it goes bad then take the good run and quit while you’re ahead. That’s his plan, anyways. 

Every time he moves, his sleeves rub against the bandages and send an uncomfortable, friction-y chills of pain that want to run through his entire body. If he wrapped enough layers for it to really be safe, he’d run the risk of people telling something was up. Sure, he flinches more like this, but then again when isn’t he a fucking mess of nervous ticks and shying away from any indication of violence. 

A mix of self-hatred, guilt, complete acceptance, and hope for any fucking support in this world sits in the middle of Dan’s ribcage. It’s heavy and gooey purple and it’s pressing the rest of his organs down, pushing him down and down. Phil was trying to help. Dan acted like a child and he knows he did but he doesn’t feel like changing the way he thinks, doesn’t feel like apologizing. It’s not like any of this really matters. They’re all just lonely kids with an internet connection. None of this is real. 

These thoughts hit the inside of his skull like rocks in the elementary school’s playground when the teacher isn’t looking. They’re grey and misshapen and leave grinding dents wherever they make contact. Greyer than gum-stuck-under-the-cafeteria-table England skies. They dribble murky city water on his shoulders after he gets off at his bus stop. Squawking pigeons try to block out the thoughts in his head and he silently thanks them, a prayer to the winged saviors normally hated, avoided. Dan sympathizes with the silly birds more than he’d admit to anyone. 

After a few good fuck ups, he turns the key to his front door well enough that it lets him inside. His parents are always working, so he doesn’t hesitate to shed all his shirt layers, throws away the bandaging and starts scrubbing off the blood with cold water and liquid soap in the bathroom sink. He tosses the shirts in the wash afterwards, with lots of stain remover. Another set of investments made due to the trials and tribulations at school. 

Meanwhile, Phil’s blocking out the sound of his kind and agreeable but loud and outgoing flatmates, worried sick in his twin sized bed. He sends a couple messages that don’t go through, apologizing and asking to call. 

He doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s apologizing for. He’s looking out for someone he cares about. Dan does this stupid thing where he only mentions it enough to make it clear he wants help, then refuses any further word on the matter. It fucking hurts to think about. It’s enough to make him cry on its own, the thought of Dan getting fucked up so bad. Let alone the so thinly veiled cries for help, how he refuses to let anyone in because doing so in the past did so much more bad than good. 

Dan tries so fucking hard not to call. He puts all his electronics away and does his homework at his desk. He re reads his favorite book another time over. But somewhere along the equations and rehearsed words, it breaks. His fucking arm hurts and his head hurts and he hasn’t eaten anything because he knows if he sees his parents he won’t be able to keep it together. He hates his fucking shit brown bedroom and hates that even thought today was the epitome of hell, he’s going to have to do it all again tomorrow because he doesn’t and hasn’t ever had a fucking say in anything that’s ever happened to him.

Phil’s entire body relaxes with relief for a split second before he’s answering Dan’s call in record time. 

Dan doesn’t have his camera on, but it’s easy enough to figure why as soon as Phil hears the low but frequent sobs. He also figures it’s no use to ask if he’s okay. “Hey, I’m here now. Do you feel safe?”

Dan can’t get the words out, so he keeps going. “You’re here with me, Dan. I’ve got you. I love you.” This only causes Dan to sob harder. 

Phil whimpers out a small “I’m sorry…” before giving up altogether. It takes a minute or two for Dan to calm down. 

Dan gulps down some water and takes some deep breaths. He doesn’t know why he’s lucky enough to have Phil care about him. He feels toxic and manipulative, like he’s just some kid who no one really cares about taking advantage of Phil’s kindness. But he speaks anyways.  
“I fucking hate it here.” His voice is low and broken and groggy and Phil’s heart physically aches. 

“I want to steal you away so bad. Sorry. That probably sounded creepy.”

Dan laughs humorlessly. “Fucking please do.”

“You can see me again soon. You can come any time. If you want to, of course. I don’t know. Sorry, I’m probably not helping at all.” Phil tries to think of more helpful things to say. “I’m sorry,” is all he can get out, though. Inventive. 

“I don’t want anything more. Maybe this weekend, or something.” He drinks more water. 

Phil’s blankets are hot and twisted around his legs. The silence floats, suspended by the gross, humid air in his dorm room. “Do you wanna talk about it?” His voice is quiet and shy, ready for rejection. 

Dan siffles all wet and gross, but Phil could listen to him ugly cry for hours if it meant getting to hear his voice again. “There’s really nothing more to be said.” He focuses on Phil’s eyes, big and bright blue on his screen. Drooping with worry. “School officials only make it worse and I can’t just leave school. I’ll be out in a few months anyways.”

And Phil’s just a kid in a university an hour away. Everyone’s powerless and it fucking sucks. He decides not to say anything more on the subject. They both know it’s hopeless for the time being. 

Phil grabs his glasses off his bedside table and nearly pokes his eye out trying to put them on. “Can you turn your camera on? I wanna see you.”

Dan laughs and says “I look a mess,” but does it anyways. 

Phil’s heart swells, uncomfortable and thudding with bittersweet, thick blood at the sight of puffy brown eyes and disheveled hair. 

“I liked your dailybooth.”

Dan laughs. It’s shrouded in gross crying snot and a raw throat, but it’s still beautiful enough to make Phil’s heart twist. “Thanks. I thought it was clever. I wish I was as good at editing as you, though.”

Phil rolls his eyes. “Oh, I can show you every trick and shortcut in the book.”

In reality, two weeks pass before they meet at the train station again. Dan’s scars are pink and puffy under his shirt. They talk about music and hold hands in the cab ride home. Dan considers Phil’s cramped dorm room more of a home than anywhere else in this bitch of a world. 

Phil holds him close that night, murmuring I love you’s over and over again into his fluffy brown hair. He presses all of Dan into himself, holding him together like he’s a broken mug with glue along all the new edges. He knows Dan’s not some tragic damsel in distress to be saved, but it’s hard not to want to steal him from the cruelty of the world. Keep him safe, tell him it will get better. That once it does, he’ll never have to leave Phil’s arms if he doesn’t want to. 

Dan leans into Phil’s chest and breathes deeply. He ends up stealing a few of Phil’s shirts and hoodies every time he comes, but it’s never really enough. Just something to wear like armor at school or cry into when it gets hard at night. Nothing quite like getting to prop himself up and kiss along Phil’s neckline, the corner of his mouth whenever he wants. But he can, and so he does.

On Dan’s last day of school, Phil skips class to give him the warmest, best hug he can offer. They get fast food and ice cream at a local diner and kiss in the back of dark movie theatres. Dan feels like he’s flying. His wings are missing a few feathers but Phil’s fingers comb through them lovingly like they’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever touched. And, god, is he.


End file.
